If Life Were Fair
by Bird2K
Summary: A concussed Dean's POV: dealing with an angry Sam, rampaging wildebeest and a marshmallow obsessed sub conscious. Set mid S3 so maybe a couple of teeny, tiny spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

If Life Were Fair by Bird2K

Chapter One

If life were fair, the name Winchester would not be associated with murder, grave desecrations and credit card fraud. No, it would conjure up feelings of safety and protection from evil and two hot guys in a smoking car. Wait, are you really thinking of Sam as hot? Must have hit your head harder than you thought… But after almost 3 decades of this shit, you have come to realise that the world really isn't all that fair. You weren't kidding when you told Hendrickson he knew crap about your dad – Hell, you're not sure how much even you knew about your dad. But you at least know he was a hero and he taught you many things. Chief among them, and the most useful right now, was how to deal with pain. The physical kind, anyway…

Ahh, and here comes Sammy. Boy he looks pissed but no change there.

"Dean! Dean, what the hell were you thinking?"

Thinking? Does he know you at all??

"Hey Sammy. You alright?"

"Me? Dude you were the one who just launched yourself at a demon possessed body builder with no weapons and a dislocated shoulder!"

You grimace as he collapses in a relieved heap next to you and starts running his giant paws over your legs and torso, checking for more injuries. At least, that's what you hope he's doing …

"Hey, Dude, a little personal space here! I know you don't get much action but quit copping a feel …"

You don't get a chance to finish as one of Sam's unnaturally large hands makes contact with your injured ribs and you can't help but suck in your breath and hiss it back out again accompanied by a low groan.

"Ok, so dislocated shoulder and maybe a couple'a broken ribs." Sam sits back on his heels giving you an appraising look, taking in the blood running down your face. He presses gently either side of the cut on your forehead, feeling the lump that goes with it and you try not to wince as you jerk away. "That's quite a crack you've got there too. With the force you hit that wall, don't think we can rule out concussion either." He pauses in his ministrations and runs a critical eye over your prone form in the gloom, "Is it even worth me asking if it hurts anywhere else?" He finally asks.

"Nah, Sammy. I'm good. Just help me up would ya?" And you are proud of the way you kept the slur in your voice to a minimum. Even you have to admit, you did hit that wall pretty hard. Damn demon strength. Why does everything you meet feel the need to slam you into the nearest hard surface? Maybe arrange the next fight in a pillow factory – no, no, marshmallows. That'd be good. You like marshmallows and, oh crap, your minds wandering again and Sam's stood there with that look on his face: worry warring with anger and maybe just a hint of exasperated hero worship vying for attention.

He bends down slightly and grasps your good arm in his left hand, whilst hooking his right around your back and under your injured shoulder, trying to avoid touching your ribs or jostling your dislocated joint anymore than necessary. Between the pair of you, you're pulled up into a fairly vertical position with the minimum of groaning on your part. Sam is forced to remain partially bent over so he can put your uninjured arm around his shoulders and help guide you out of the ruined building and to the waiting Impala.

No matter how injured you are the sight of your baby sitting so patiently where you left her, ready to carry you away to safety never ceases to lift your spirits and your staggering gait speeds up a little. Sam shoots you a disapproving look as you stumble forward and he is forced to bend down even further to re-adjust your weight and prevent you both from losing your balance and ending up face down in the road.

You arrive beside the Chevy and Sam leans your weight against the passenger side as he fishes in his pocket for his set of keys and opens the door before helping you lower inside. It isn't until he has shut the door and made his way around to the drivers side himself that you think to put up resistance.

"Hey, who said you could drive?"

Sam just shoots you another withering look and starts the engine. You have always found the deep rumbling vibration of the engine soothing and you feel yourself begin to drift, leaving behind the pain and floating with soft, white marshmallow clouds … what is it with you and marshmallows at the moment? Maybe you do have a concussion. Sam's worried voice cuts into your thoughts.

"Dean, hey, stay with me man. I know you're tired, but just try and stay awake until we get back to the motel and I can check you out properly. Ok?"

You grunt non-commitally but try and keep your eyes open and focused on the passing scenery. You can see Sam shooting you concerned looks out of the corner of your eye but you're just too sore and frankly bone weary to get into anything with him right now.

You pass the rest of the way in blissful silence. Sam continuing to watch you and make sure you remain conscious but obviously biting back his incessant need to talk to you and just let you rest as best you can.

Once back at the motel, the manoeuvring out of the car is even more painful than folding yourself in it had been. Your joints had all stiffened up during the journey and you can't bite back the groan of pain as Sam again has to help haul you to your feet.

"You alright man?" he asks. His expressive hazel eyes for once unreadable in the dim light of the parking lot.

You make another non-committal grunt; you have a whole range of them at your disposal so figure you may as well make use of them, and stagger with him to the motel room. Sam deposits you gently onto the nearest bed and then lopes back out to retrieve the first aid kit from the Impala.

You sit as still as possible whilst you wait for Sam to gather all the things he'll need to patch you up, again. You hate to admit it but every tiny movement sends bolts of pain from your ribs to your ruined shoulder and then up through your head which feels like a herd of migrating wildebeest are charging through, wearing clogs and banging drums. And, wait, do wildebeest migrate? And why would you even care? Damn Sammy and his obsession with the Discovery Channel. You don't want to watch lemurs doing it - what's wrong with proper porn? No wonder the boy never gets laid …

"Hey, Dean, how you doing?"

You jump at the proximity of Sam's worried voice and even more worried face, and then really wish you hadn't as the wildebeest start their rampage anew.

"'M Okay." You mumble unconvincingly and Sam just shoots you yet another of those looks. You guess that 25 years of being your little brother has given him plenty of time to practice. Now he can combine up to 7 different but equally disapproving expressions in just one look. Impressive.

A sudden and worrying thought occurs to you, and you are embarrassed and frankly rather freaked that it has taken this long.

"What happened to the possessed Arnie wannabe, anyway?"

And, damn, the slur was even more evident now. Note to self: when attempting to downplay possible concussion to Sammy, avoid the word possessed. And the slight sway as you apply a white knuckled grip on the suddenly spinning bed. Both dead giveaways.

Sam helps you out of your jacket and shirt as carefully as he can before beginning to cut off your t-shirt. Ahh well, at least it wasn't one of your favourites this time.

"I took care of him."

At your questioning look, he continues,

"I found the Colt, where you dropped it when he threw you the first time. I nailed him after you did your whole kamikaze thing and he threw you against the wall again. Didn't you hear the shot?"

You didn't, which should worry you but you're far more concerned by Sam's behaviour. You're not sure which is worse, the complete lack of emotion in Sam's voice or the white hot anger you can see in his eyes as he tells you he just shot a man. Ok, so he was a possessed man who had been doing some truly awful things, not least of all whilst fighting the pair of you that evening. But still … this is Sammy, your sensitive little brother and as much as you always hated what he did to himself with the guilt of events which weren't his fault, as you stare into his angry eyes, you suddenly miss the angst.

You want to reach out in some way, provoke some reaction which is more 'Sam' but you're not good at this sort of stuff at the best of times. And now, with the stampeding wildebeest and the pain from your ribs and dislocated shoulder the only things keeping the fuzziness of your mind at bay, is definitely not one of them. You're saved from having to break the silence by Sam who is examining your injured shoulder with a tight look on his face.

"I think I can pop this back in myself. Shouldn't need a hospital. Do you want something for the pain first? You can't have anything too strong, 'cos of the concussion but you'll need something to at least take the edge off."

You gaze at Sam steadily, well, as steadily as you can whilst the bed is still rotating. He is avoiding eye contact as he rifles through the first aid supplies pulling out Ibuprofen and bandages and the suture kit, presumably for the injury to your head.

"Sam? Sam, look at me. Are you ok?"

He turns slowly and meets your eyes. You're surprised and a little intimidated at the amount of anger in his face but suppose it is better than nothing. Feeling anything is better than a constant, numbing cold, and you should know, right?

"Am I ok? Am _I_ ok? You're sat there clinging on to the bed like you could be thrown off at any moment with blood dripping down your face, possibly broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder. All because you threw yourself at a demon that I was handling perfectly well by myself!"

Well, even in your current condition you can't let that last bit slide …

"Handling, Sam? Handling? He had you pinned to a wall and was throttling you. How was that you handling him?"

"I had a plan, Dean. I …"

"A plan, Sam? A plan that involved you being choked to death?"

"Oh no, you don't get to do that to me! Mr Act-First-Think-Later-If-At-All. You do not get to lecture me on planning things out. That thing had attacked us both, threw you into a wall like a rag doll and you were just laying there. I didn't know if … if you were alright and I just had to get to the Colt and finish him. He grabbed me as I was trying to reach it and …"

"Started strangling you … yeah I saw. So what was I supposed to do, Sammy? Just watch him kill you? I had to get him off of you and …"

"And so you launched yourself at him like an attack dog. You didn't stop to think it would be easier to kill him if you took a few seconds to find the Colt, you just reacted. You always have to put yourself in the line of fire, even before you decided you were a dead man walking and now … Jesus, Dean, you can't just take on a demon with no weapon and a dislocated shoulder. What did you plan on doing? Rip your arm off the rest of the way and beat him to death with it?"

You can't help yourself, a dry chuckle escapes you at that, which quickly turns into a grunt of pain as your ribs are jolted and the Wildebeest begin their migration again.

This seems to knock Sam out of his mood and he immediately continues in his quest to put Humpty back together again. He hands you 2 tablets and as you put them in your mouth he passes you a glass of water which you dutifully sip to chase them down. Taking it away again he studies your injuries thoughtfully before beginning to clean your head wound.

"This should only need a few stitches, so I'll get them done whilst we wait for the painkillers to kick in. Hopefully that will take the edge off your shoulder long enough to pop it back in place."

You wish he'd stop keep saying 'pop it back in place' like it was the easiest thing in the world. 'Pop' was such an innocuous little word to use for something you knew from past experience was gonna hurt like a bitch.

"I don't think any of your ribs are actually broken, probably just badly bruised. We'll rest up for a few days though, give you some time to heal."

As Sam speaks he keeps his eyes on the wound he is carefully stitching. You don't need to be able to see what he's doing to know it will be clean and neat and probably won't even leave much of a scar for the chicks to fuss over. Everything Sam does is carefully considered, clean and neat. Even down to executing a demon. He did stop long enough to think and grab the Colt. He would never charge in weapon less – well, there was that one time with Gordon but they were exceptional circumstances – and that's why you know he'll be fine without you. Eventually. Despite having you to hide behind most of his life, he isn't the defenceless kid you sometimes treat him like. He can take care of himself, and without you dragging him into one battle after another, forcing him into trouble in order to get you out, he'll probably not even need half of the skills you have taught him. 'Cos yeah, you taught him how to fight, how to survive and you taught him well. There aren't many things you've done that you're proud of but raising Sam is number one on the list. Number two being re-building your baby, and number three is currently the fact you're still conscious, despite the pain, and the darkness now dancing at the edges of your vision.

If you're honest with yourself, which you rarely are these days, you sometimes wonder if Sam turned out so well because of you or in spite of you but you hope it's the former. Certainly, he'd have had a lot bumpier childhood if it had been just him and dad. You might annoy and exasperate him, intentionally or otherwise, to the point where he can no longer stand to be in the same room as you but you know, at least you think you know, he has always understood your good intentions. Understood that you only ever wanted what's best for him.

"Sorry, man. All done now."

Sam is speaking again and it takes you a moment to realise you must have winced as he tied the stitches off. He places a piece of gauze over the wound and carefully tapes it in place.

"Ok, now for the shoulder."

He steps back and looks you over again before carefully lifting your injured arm, holding it firmly he braces your shoulder with one of his freakishly large hands and looks you in the eye.

"You ready, Dean?"

You nod and he continues.

"Right, well you know the drill. On three - one, two, three …"

And you can't bite back the anguished cry as the joint 'pops' back into place and you slump forward, leaning into Sam's chest as sweat pours out of you and your vision tunnels. You're vaguely aware of a comforting weight on your head and soothing words in your brothers voice but you're suddenly too tired to care enough to try and make them out and so you let go and drift off, finally, on the marshmallow clouds.


	2. Chapter 2

If Life Were Fair by Bird2K

Chapter Two

You come-to gradually and take stock of your injuries. Everything still seems to be attached in the right places, which is always a bonus. The wildebeest are gone only to be replaced by a troop of tap dancing gazelle who appear to have set up stage in your skull. The beat of their hooves is in tempo to the throbbing of your ribs and shoulder. But still, you suppose that this is an improvement and decide to try opening your eyes. Sam is lying in the next bed but you can tell by the sound of his breathing he is not asleep and you debate your next move. Simply returning to sleep is an option, and quite a tempting one at that, but you could do with more pain killers and besides, you really need to pee. You wonder idly how long you've been out and decide it can't have been too long or Sam, worried about your head injury, would have tried waking you before now. You shift slightly and a low groan escapes your lips before you can bite it back. Sam is immediately up and at your side.

"Hey, Dean. How ya doing?"

"'M fine." You croak, before clearing your throat and trying again. "'M fine, Sammy. How are you?"

"I'm okay. You want some more painkillers?"

You nod but then realise that seems to upset the gazelle so stop and grunt out an affirmative instead. Sam flicks on a bedside light as he makes his way to the bathroom to get a glass of water. You try and sit up but quite a lot of your muscles seem to object so you slump back down and wait for Sam. He returns a minute later with a drink and 2 tablets and helps you upright with a slight hiss and a groan on your part. You dutifully swallow the tablets and the water before taking a good look at your little brother.

And suddenly you are filled with an icy rage as you see the harsh bruising to Sam's neck and the cuts and scrapes to his face. How could you have missed all of that? What the hell kind of a brother are you? Self recrimination fuels your anger and, with nowhere else to direct it, you aim the only way you can.

"Sammy, what the hell … You said you were ok!"

Sam makes a non-committal noise of his own and then grabs the elbow of your uninjured arm to stop you tipping over as you suddenly launch to your feet. Your muscles really object to that and the gazelle take off, obviously spooked by the sudden change in altitude. You give yourself a couple of seconds to be sure you can remain upright unaided, before breaking free of Sam's hold and grabbing his chin to gently move it from side to side and take in the damage. Sam allows this manhandling without comment and only winces slightly as you gently probe the bruising.

"It's not as bad as it looks." He says hoarsely, and why the hell didn't you notice how his voice was rasping before? He finally grows tired of your probing and takes a step away. You stumble forward slightly and he grabs your good arm to steady you and tries to lower you back to the bed. You resist as you finally remember your full bladder and awkwardly side step your not-so-little brother and hobble to the bathroom.

A few minutes and some fumbling later you return and gingerly lower yourself back onto your bed. Sam is sitting up on his own bed, one leg on the floor and the other bent underneath it. He runs a tired hand through his hair and looks at you thoughtfully.

"Sam, why didn't you tell me you were hurt?" You ask, even as you think he should never have to tell you, you should just know. You guess the big brother radar has been a bit off recently. That's the trouble with hiding behind all these damn walls – nothing gets out, but maybe they are stopping some things getting in too.

"I told you, it looks worse than it is. Besides, you were in much worse shape than me."

Well, that's a matter of opinion but you suppose you must have been fairly off your game to not even notice Sam's injuries. Still, that's no excuse, Winchester, and you know it. You mentally shake yourself off – not physically, that would not be fun – and decide that better late than never…

"Well I'm ok now, so let me take a proper look at you."

Sam raises a sceptical eyebrow at this, which is joined by a wry twist of his lips as you struggle to your feet, grab the first aid kit from the chest of drawers and carefully sit down next to him on his bed. You start to rummage through your meagre medical supplies not entirely sure what you're looking for. As if reading your mind, Sam takes the bag away from you and says,

"Dude, how many times? I'm fine, it's just superficial cuts and bruises I cleaned them up already and there's nothing else you can do for them. Given the size of that guy, I was lucky – we both were!"

And you don't know why he looks so pointedly at you, then. You issue grunt number 73 in your repertoire and let your gaze wonder around the room. As tired as you are and as much as you hate all that touchy feely crap, you just know you're gonna have to talk about what happened tonight: Sam shot someone, and doesn't seem to care. There's that feeling, the pit in your stomach, like after you woke up from your coma 'cos dad had made his deal for you. The deep, down feeling of 'wrongness' you now know better than to ignore. And you can't shake the demons words; is what you bought back 100 your Sammy?

So you need to talk, which will probably turn into the chick-flick moment from hell, but you're willing to do it for Sam. Hey, you sold your soul for him, is a little heart to heart really too much to ask? Trouble is you can't decide where to begin. Sam's getting pretty sick of you asking if he's alright (Ha! Now he knows how you feel!) and it's not like you really expect him to reply with, 'Well actually Dean, I'm feeling a bit off. Gonna go sacrifice a couple of virgins, see if that cheers me up a bit.' And if you step back from the panic and worry and objectively look at him, how much has he really changed? So he's gotten a little more trigger happy, given everything he's been through maybe it's just made him a little more 'shoot first …' Plus, the number of demons unleashed, on top of the overwhelming evil already present in the world, it makes sense that you would both have upped your kill quota. Still …

As your gaze finally settles back on baby bro, you realise he has been watching you the entire time with a quizzical expression and a slight glint of mirth in his hazel depths.

"What?" you ask, somewhat tetchily. Maybe not the best opening gambit, but you've got to start somewhere.

"Nuthin'. Just wondering where the concussion was taking you. You were looking pretty spacey there, dude."

You huff a reply and look down at your hand – the one that isn't attached to the aching shoulder and braced against your sore ribs, but distractedly fiddling with a hole in your jeans. Ahh well, here goes …

"It's just … I was thinking, y'know, you've been a little quick on the draw recently and I was wondering if there was any particular reason and if, er, you were feelin' ok. 'Cos, you've always been all, like, 'look at the bigger picture, Dean. They can't help being monsters. It's not all black and white.' But now you're more, 'another one bites the dust,' y'know? And I just … I guess I just wanted to know why."

You finally look up into Sam's eyes and are surprised at what you see. You expected anger, denial maybe a bit of guilt (well, this is Sam after all.) What you didn't expect was the look of utter incredulity which had spread right across his face, from dimple to dimple and all the way up to his bangs. His mouth slightly open and a big crease separating his eyebrows lend themselves to the whole feel of puzzled bewilderment he was emanating.

"You want to know why I've been killing evil, Dean? Why I've been shooting monsters that were attacking people - attacking us?" His tone is measured and even, which conversely, you don't think is a good sign.

"Well, yeah."

"You want to know why I've been killing things that are attacking us?" He reiterates with exaggerated patience, which is definitely not a good sign.

"Yeeeaaah…" And suddenly you're not so sure you phrased the question right.

"You really did smack your head, didn't ya? Maybe we should get you x-rayed, check for a skull fracture or something."

Possible brain injuries aside, you are alert enough to recognise a classic piece of Sammy misdirection when you hear it.

"You know what I mean, Sam. You've only ever used force when you had to before, and now …" You trail off, not really sure where you want to go with that one and Sam's looking at you kinda funny.

"Before what?" He asks, deceptively quiet and you notice how still he has become.

Ahh, crap, in at the deep end then. And if it all goes pear shaped, blame it on the head injury….

"Before I bought you back." Bull by the horns, look him straight in the eye and let's see where this baby takes us. "Ever since you … came back," you still can't use the word 'died', "you've been different. You're colder, more ruthless on the hunt. Quicker to kill without asking questions. Sammy, you've always asked questions, man. Hell, it was one of the biggest reasons you and dad fought so much. But now, we find the bad thing and we kill it. No agonising about right or wrong. No moral ping pong. Just work out how and waste it." You pause to try and read how he's taking all this, but you can't really fathom the multitude of emotions flitting across his face so you plunge on regardless.

"I just … I think I just want to know why. What's bought about the big change in attitude, Sam?"

Sam is quiet for the longest time and you imagine you can see the conflicting thoughts and feelings actually duking it out on his face. He stands, turns his back on you and runs his hand through his hair. Then the pacing starts. Finally he says,

"Let me get this straight: You think I've changed since Jake killed me and you – my big brother and last remaining family, the number one most important person in my life - sold your soul to bring me back, leaving you with just a year to live before Hell Hounds come and drag you off to eternal damnation?"

You nod mutely, even though the gazelle really don't like sudden movements, you don't think you can trust yourself to speak. Sam's tone is still low and controlled but there is such a wealth of emotion in his eyes, you can't begin to pinpoint any individual one which might be vying for dominance. And you really don't think your head could handle a Sammy explosion right now so you sit and watch and wait. And, hang on, 'number one most important person in his life?' that's kinda nice to hear, not that you've got much competition, you suppose. What with Ole Yellow Eyes offing pretty much everyone else. Still …

"You don't get it do you? You don't get what you've done? And after dad did it to you, too. I've got less than a year to save you, man, or you're going to Hell. Forever! Not just dying and leaving me on my own - which would be bad enough - but actually going TO. HELL. FOR. EVER! Leaving me on my own, knowing you are suffering eternal torment, because of me. FOREVER!"

His controlled tone finally gives way to shouting and you flinch slightly at the impact this has on the tap dancing gazelle. The pacing has ceased and he is now stood in front of you, clenching and unclenching his fists. It seems he's worked up a head of steam now and you know from experience that there's no stopping a steamed up Sammy…

"Of course I'm going to be a bit more ruthless, man; we don't have time to waste. _I_ don't have time to waste. Every second debating whether this thing could be handled a different way, or that demon exorcised to possibly save it's host, is time I could be using trying to find a way out for you. If I've changed then it's because my priorities have changed. If you won't help yourself, then I guess it's all on me. Because, Dean, there's no way I'm sitting back idly watching you do your whole kamikaze routine, wondering if you'll even make the full year before getting yourself killed. I thought we'd discussed this after Gordon, I thought you understood. I need my brother. Not a human shield or body guard or freakin' attack dog. My brother. I need you Dean. And not just for the next few months, but always. I've spent too long letting you do the tough stuff, trying to keep my conscience clear, worrying about the wrong things. But I get it now. I see what's important. I can't get as worked up about saving other people if I can't even save you. And I can't see the point in saving a world that, in a few months, won't have you in it anymore."

He finally pauses for breath, panting as he stares at you, willing you to understand, before continuing.

"So, yeah, I guess I've changed, Dean. I've grown up. I think I've finally realised what you've known all along: we were never meant to get everything we want, so we should just be thankful for everything we have. And I am, and I intend to keep it."

You hold his gaze for as long as you can; you're instinctual need to lighten the moment with a bit of well aimed snark being quelled by the depth of feeling in Sam's eyes. You wonder how differently things might have turned out if Sam had had this little epiphany 10 years ago. It certainly would have made his teenage years a whole lot easier to deal with. And if he'd never gone to Stanford, never left you the first time, moved on and been happy when you were so miserable. If he hadn't already proved that he really didn't need you as much as you did him, then maybe he'd have a convincing argument now. But he had left, in fact, he leaves quite a lot, and, if you don't count the time he got possessed, and that other time when Gordon tried to shoot him and then blow him up, he always seems to get on fine without you. In fact, the possessed thing was sort of your fault anyway, as the demon was actually out for revenge on you. And it's not like Gordo's a threat anymore, either; another little job efficiently undertaken by the suddenly ruthless Sam, although you can't blame him on that one.

Well, all this thinking isn't getting the chick flick torture over with any quicker. Briefly, you wonder if this is what your personal Hell will be like; an emotionally charged conversation spanning eternity and an involuntary shudder runs down your spine, jarring your ribs and shoulder and inspiring the gazelle into a little Irish jig. So, how to make your point, make Sam realise big brother always knows best and then shut the whole thing down without having to feign passing out.

Why couldn't you have just kept your mouth shut to begin with? Damn concussion!

"No, but Sammy, that was me, not you. I learnt to be happy with what I got because I knew I wouldn't get anything more. I didn't really need anything outside of you, dad and the job, anyway. But you, you can have more. You're smarter than I am, you're stronger and you know how to connect with people. You can get away from all of this and actually do something with your life."

"I thought we were doing something! What happened to 'saving people, hunting things, the family business,' Dean? And where do you come up with all this crap about me being stronger? Why do you think I'll cope better without you then you would without me?"

"Because you did!"

Your words are quietly delivered but seem to have hit a nerve. Sam looks at you and you see the muscle in his clenched jaw jump. You pre-warn the gazelle – _incoming!_ - in the hopes they might remove their tap shoes before fleeing across your skull this time. But the expected explosion never comes. Sam suddenly deflates and sits back down on the bed next to you with a sigh, and you have an immediate image of a balloon with his face on it, whizzing haphazardly around the room as the air escapes from its un-knotted end. Ok, maybe a skull x-ray wouldn't be such a bad idea, 'cos that's just not right…

Sam is giving you one of those looks: one of those deeply charged, 'there's so much I want to say but there's no way you'd let me say it' looks. The ones which always make your heart clench with something - you assume it's fear - in case he actually voices the unthinkable or, even worse, hugs you. But, as always, reading your discomfort, he settles for patting you on the knee and says,

"I'm sorry I left, man, but you do know that it's never been about getting away from you, right? Sometimes I needed space from all this," he gestures around himself with his huge hands, "but I always knew, if I needed you, I could call you and you'd come. That's why I seemed ok without you: it was because I never really thought of myself as being without you. You were always still there, Dean, even when you weren't actually _there_."

He looks at you, hard, trying to make sure the full impact of his words is hitting home. You return his gaze, mutely but are saved from having to make an immediate response as he continues.

"You being gone, actually, totally, permanently gone, I can't even imagine that. Don't want to. You think I hurt you when I left; well you keep trying to die on me Dean, how do you think that feels? But each time I've known that there wasn't anything I wouldn't do to save you. This time's no different, except I have a definite deadline to work to and the added incentive of keeping you out of Hell. You have got to understand that I can't let you go anymore than you could me and, if you won't help me to save you, for whatever reason, then please, at least don't try and stop me. And give me the full year, stop being so reckless. Because, worse case scenario, if I can't undo the deal in time, I'm marching straight into Hell behind you and dragging your ass back out!"

And you have to smirk at that, he sounds so much like you. Maybe you should cut the kid some slack. You know if the roles were reversed you would never give up on Sam, and as you raised him, if he is stubborn and pig headed you've got no-one to blame but yourself. And maybe those Winchester genes… Still, you've never been able to deny Sam anything, and what he seems to want right now, maybe what you both need right now, is just a little hope.

"Okay, Sammy, I'll rein it in. I can't actively help you break the deal, it's too risky to you, but I'll stop being so reckless. I'll give you all the time that I can."

Sam searches your eyes, looking for confirmation that you're not just fobbing him off and you allow your walls to lower enough he can see you're being genuine. He nods and pats your knee again before standing and offering you a hand up.

"Okay then, Captain Concussion, I think we've pushed our luck enough for one night. Why don't you get some rest, you look like crap."

You grimace and bite back a groan as you haul to your feet and manage a graceless stagger-stumble to your own bed. You just lie where you landed and close your eyes, waiting for the marshmallow clouds to reappear and float you away for a few blissful hours.

And as you start to drift, you think, if life were fair, Mom wouldn't have been killed, Dad would be happily fixing cars for a living and Sam would be at Law School, engaged to Jessica and with his whole, untainted future ahead of him. No responsibilities towards big bro beyond buying you a couple of beers on a Saturday night. You'd do anything to be able to give Sam that. But life isn't fair, so you can't. But you can give him hope, so you do.

And in the absence of fair, hope will have to be enough.

The End


End file.
